


The Seventh Rainy Season

by Red



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aged-Up Character, Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bodily Fluids, Filling Buckets, First Time, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Infidelity, M/M, Macro/Micro, Mating, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Pailing with Your Palebro, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post SBURB, Quadrant Confusion, Rough Sex, Size Differences, Size Kink, Tentabulges, Troll Romance, Understanding Matesprits, Xeno, xenokink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: In Which A Giant Goddamn Murderclown Forgets He's About to be Taken Over By Highblood Mating Hormones, and--Rather than Stay Home with His Stuttering Matesprit--Decides to Book a Vacation with His Already Eternally Suffering Moirail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Rainy Season

Though you’d admit the new world you all found yourself in seven sweeps ago isn't a _complete_ disaster--you're all alive, some of you retained marginally useful powers, there aren’t any imperial drones panting down your cull-worthy backside--the fact remains, no matter how shockingly livable a planet created by a half-barkbeast might be, your life remains a joke of cosmic fucking proportions. 

Once you'd realized you were stuck on a planet with eight soft-brained humans, a handful of amphibious consorts, two fucking moons' worth of carapace society, a feathery asshole, and twenty-three of the shittiest trolls in paradox space, you had wisely built your hive out in the middle of chutefuck nowhere and just prayed everyone would take the hint. 

Past you, no matter how old you are, remains a bulgesniffing idiot. It's true that you've successfully avoided speaking to _some_ of them, like the goddamn Mach II Mouthbreathing Hoofbeast Fetishist. Even better, you've averted the horror of seeing any of those Inbred Fucking Wigglers (Soft Human or Otherwise), as their carapace lusii know just enough to keep the fuck off your lawnring. 

The rusty gears of troll and human relationships, however, continue to grind meaninglessly onward despite the efforts of past and current you. Very few hints were even so much as looked at--much less taken--by the insufferable assholes with which you share the troll disease of friendship. You had considered destroying your transportalizer, but even past you realized that would be a terrible fucking idea.

One that would only result in a situation like the one you're fucking trapped in now. 

For reasons current you will never understand, past you decided to build your hive in a region of the planet where there is what John insipidly deems a "rainy season." Typical rotpanned human understatement: your lawnring is pleasant enough for the majority of a sweep, save for the three months in which it's completely flooded. And if you’re having a _particularly_ lucky week--usually two out of those three months--your electricity will cut out. You can then have the luxury of a few days in the dark cursing Jade Harley's powers of terraforming, the electrical engineering of two individuals too busy fondling their nooks over musclebeast cock to build a reliable fucking generator, and the ineptitude of past you. 

And, if you're really super fucking lucky, you can do all that while your overgrown excuse for a moirail shambles around your hive. 

"Hey, palebro," he says, not for the first jegusfucking time, "the lights are all up and out."

You consider eviscerating yourself should he become slackjawed at the "miracles" of electricity _again_. 

This many sweeps away from all influence of troll nightmare clown culture, you’d figure he would drop the mirthful messiah complex. But of course, that would imply logic had any fucking place in the life of this horngroping nightmare.

Reminding him--again, not for the first time--that _yes, even_ humans _figured out how electricity motherfucking works_ , you begin shoving his bony ass toward the nearest pile. He can see as well as you in the dark, he's no human. But between his overlong limbs and the influence of that rank human smoke he's been breathing for sweeps, you don't trust any of your shit making it through the night undemolished if you don't do some basic fucking damage control. 

"Look, forget about the fucking generator," you growl. He keeps doing this--intermittently stressing out about the lack of power in the hive. It weirds you the fuck out. "Let's just get the feeling jam over with." 

Normally, you would sooner stick hot stabbing implements in your gazebulbs than volunteer for this shit. Starting jams is Gamzee's line of idiocy; long ago, you’d accepted your role as a moirail to be comprised entirely of calming his murderous tits. But at this point, you’re willing to do just about anything to keep his skinny ass from wandering around the hive, knocking over your shit, and looking all pathetic at your no-longer-functional transportalizer. 

As if you need any other fucking reminders that you're a steaming pile of shit in any quadrant. Thirteen sweeps and you've only properly filled one of them. 

And even your junkie psychopath moirail can hardly stand you. 

Tempting though it may be, now isn't the time for a stroll down the familiar avenue of spiraling self-loathing. Now is the time to calm some tit, and possibly to spare your hive from demolition via twitchy clown. 

"Care to tell me where the fuck your feelings are 'all up and at'?" you ask, burrowing away from a what is an excruciatingly jabby bit of pile. You realize past you had to scrape the very bottom of the pile barrel to throw together something large enough for Gamzee, but for fucks sake. You could have drawn the line at deadly kitchen instruments. 

Gamzee, bless his murderous heart, puts a rangy arm around you and pulls you close like the concept of personal fucking space went out with the lights. A fork digs furiously into your ribs, and your face is shoved mercilessly into the all-too-familiar smell of greasepaint and human plant smoke. 

There's something else there, as well--something strange and unfamiliar about the smell of Gamzee's sweat. It's disconcerting, even with that odd undertone of whatever-the-fuck, Gamzee's still Gamzee, you think. Same moron you've been saddled with for this long for whatever reason. 

He hums a little in response to your question. Maybe the vibration feels kind of nice against your side, but you start swearing anyway because that is not a fucking response to any fucking question, and he's a fucking idiot.

"Come on, nook-for-brains. What the fuck is your problem?"

He paps you lazily, right between the horns. His hands being massive as they are, maybe he's only petting one of your horns _accidentally_ , but it's still a pretty fucking flushed gesture. 

Overly familiar chutewipe doesn't know enough to mean anything by it, but you stiffen awkwardly and swat his hand away. 

"That shit's for your girl," you remind him, and where normally he’d laugh and maybe make you want to kill him a little more, he just tenses up. 

"It's a motherfucking good time," he says, "for a brother to be up and getting some shut-eye." 

What the ever-loving fuck, you think. A, it's the middle of the night; and B, Gamzee will use any fucking excuse to talk to you endlessly about miracles and clownshit. Shirking feeling jams? That's your division, and now Gamzee is moving in and putting his feet up and cluttering your metaphorical desk. But--being as he's approximately as big as two of you--there’s not much else to do than let him shamble off. You're not quite to the point of detaining him with a well placed set of sickles. 

So you successfully find yourself sprawled-out in an uncomfortable pile. 

In the dark. 

While you listen to the doorframe to your respiteblock get gored by a pair of outsized horns. 

_Great job, bulgestain_ , you think to yourself. 

You have no fucking clue what you said, exactly, to drive him off. Being as you're a complete failure at the best of times, you suppose the feat of narrowing it down is impossible. 

It couldn't be about calling him out for being too--bluh, _matesprity_ \--you think. Sure, you pity the fuck out of that braindead disaster, but there's never been anything even approaching redrom between the two of you. So, you consider the facts as they stand.

One, you have an antsy-as-fuck insane clown in your hive. 

Two, he's stuck here for the foreseeable future. And apparently unhappy with that development, even if he was the one to initiate "tHiS mOsT mOtHeRfUcKiNg BiTcHtItS Of ViSiTs." 

Three, over the last day or so, you've noticed he's started to smell "off" somehow. And not in the usual someone-left-the-clown-out-in-the-rain sort of way--it's something new, something you've never noticed before. 

And four, he's, well. Starting to pull shit like this. Bluh, I'm Gamzee, I'm going to get all red and start fondling my palebro's nubby little horns, bluh. It's infuriating, and more than a little confusing. Gamzee doesn't have enough working brain left to figure out quadrant flipping. And--for reasons you'll never figure out--someone who once wore a fucking codpiece managed to get more quadrants properly filled than you. Even if he _could_ figure out how to stop being all diamonds for you, then what? The thought of them filling buckets is disturbing enough, but thinking of Gamzee getting shooshed by fucking Tavros nearly makes you puke up your digestion sac.

You lie there for a while, attempting not to lose your internal organs. Then you decide to stay in the pile a bit longer, attempting to arrange the facts in a way that sheds any fucking light at all on your situation. 

Unsurprisingly, given how fucking honed your investigative skills are, you get nowhere. But, given that past you never remembered to alchemize so much as a match, you're stuck in a dark hive. There fuck all to do besides stare at the ceiling, think about the intricacies troll romance, and listen to the rain. 

 

You wake up, some vague amount of time later--only four people have any meaningful concept of time on this planet, and half of them are wastechute-munching douchebags--with a headache. It would have helped if past you hadn't decided to fall asleep on the inside of a cutlery drawer. 

Sitting up, you stretch to pop your spine. Over the sweeps, your sleeping cycle has mostly normalized, but you still find yourself passing out like a wiggler from time to time; like your body keeps making up for lost sleep with fucking interest. 

It's still night, and your hive is unsurprisingly still powerless. Everything is silent, save for the constant percussion of rain. It also, you realize, smells even more like whatever the fuck it is Gamzee's sweating off. Glancing around, it at least seems that Gamzee isn't lurking in the corner with a bludgeoning device and a head full of horrorterrors. 

You grab the nearest shitty sickle all the same. 

Much as you love that psychotic sopor-panned bulgelicker, you haven't survived this long as Gamzee's moirail just to get yourself offed tonight. Not for the first time, you wonder what pitiful excuse for a thought made him come out here during the one time of year your hive is as hot as human ass. 

Maybe it's no wonder, you think, that Gamzee's scent is so odd. He's probably dying slowly of Seasonal Highblood Idiocy Disorder, viscera melting slow under that weak almost-seadweller skin. He was born to live in a fucking bog, not to vacation in the armpit of Jade Harley's Miracle Planet of Rainbow Assholes. 

The fact that that's actually _a fucking thing_ \--it's only the plot of five of the top critically acclaimed classic troll tragiromances--makes your chitinous windhole tighten up. Gamzee may be a bucketlicker of the first fucking order, but you've resigned yourself to a lifetime of watching after this rail-transporter-wreck of a troll.

Pulling his bony half-rotted corpse out of your hive isn't really in the game plan. 

Your sense of smell won't ever be even half as good as Terezi's or Sollux's, but you're no weak-nubbed human. And even if you were, you really think it'd be pretty fucking impossible to miss his heavy animal smell. You keep to the shadows, small as you're able, and head sickles-out toward where that scent gets thicker. 

As spacious as your hive is--which is, given the lack of carpenter drones in Harley's Grand Design of Whimsical Fuckery, not very large at all--there are only so many places Gamzee could have skulked off. And of course, your luck being what it is--no need to go in depth, there--you soon discover that the trail leads right to your respiteblock. 

Great, you think. Fucking great. There's the giant gouge taken out of your door frame, because fucknuts didn't think to duck his useless head when he went through. He'd shut the door behind him, which does approximately fuck all to stop the scent of dying juggalo from assaulting your faceholes. You guess it was nice of him to make an effort. 

Tilting your head, you listen carefully. You still wouldn't put terrifying murderrages entirely past him, even after as many corpse-free sweeps as you've enjoyed. Patiently, you wait for even a hint of a honk. 

And then you wait a bit longer. 

And--your hands clenching and relaxing on the sickle handles--you wait a while more. 

It's void-silent inside your hive, save for the constant pelting of rain, and you still stand there in the dark, ears straining forward.

Finally, around the time when you start to berate past you for being such an insensitive wad of nookcheese about your surely-a-festering-corpse moirail, you hear it. 

A low, breathless noise; certainly less a honk than a moan. Your fingers slip on the sickles, letting them fall. That idiot, you think. 

"Gamzee," you start to say, but your voice doesn't come out half as belligerent or loud as you'd like, and you doubt he hears you. The sound starts up again, longer this time. It's almost like the content rumbling he makes when you're finished with a particularly strenuous shooshing session. But it's more vocalized than that, like he's making it high up in his throat. It squeezes your windpipe how desperate and lonely it sounds, and you're already opening the door exactly when you realize the sheer level of fucking idiocy to which you've descended. 

Often, you wonder if this is actually a doomed timeline; right now, you really fucking hope it is. If the best possible timeline is you getting stuck in a humid hive with a stoned giant clown during highblood mating season, you'd really fucking prefer it the universe frog would just croak already. 

"Shitfuck," you say. There's nothing else _to_ say. 

You are confronted with the sight of your moirail in a state of complete undress. It isn't the first time you've seen that, sure. It isn't even the first time you've seen his gogdamn bulge, because you have none of the luck and usually neither he nor his matesprit understand the miracle of doors. 

It is, however, the first time you've seen him on all fours with a jizz-stained club up his nook. 

You blink, twice, but sadly he doesn't disappear. You also do not go blind, much to your dismay.

He's slow to react. Of course he is--he's Gamzee _and_ he's shoving random crap up his nook--but when his massive head turns to look up at you, his eyes are even more glazed than usual. 

"Motherfucking shit," he agrees. That moan comes again, stilted and involuntary, and if it's even possible you blush even more. A quiet shoosh slips from you, and you step forward even though jegus christ your moirail is in heat what the fuck.

You aren't an idiot. At least you aren't enough of an idiot to not know about this. It's only the plot of several less-acclaimed--but no less classic, if you ask you--troll romance films. And _not that you’d know too much about it_ , it’s also the plot of pretty much every troll porn ever, even the ones about lowbloods. Biologically inaccurate as that might be. 

Highbloods have, over millennia, evolved approximately a million and one ways to be murderous douchecanoes. And for anything cooler than a blue-green, this is one of them. 

This is also something you are never fucking explaining again to any human ever, after Egbert asked during a movie and all you fucking heard about for an entire fucking sweep was about "troll pon farr" and "Spock's blood is almost blue, right?" whatever the fuck that all meant. But basically, cold enough blood usually means living for so fucking long you forget about the basics, and nature just had to come up with a way to remind highbloods to spray their icy genetic material all over the place. 

So once a sweep, there's this: painful fuck-or-die time. If it hadn't been for the existing threat of imperial drones making it so fuck-or-die was a scenario every gogdamn troll is faced with on Alternia, you'd _almost_ feel some sympathy for a few of the more pathetic seadwellers you know. 

Almost. 

You swallow, twice, trying to get the scent of Gamzee's heat out of your throat. You aren't successful. 

"You pathetic pan-rotted nookwipe," you mumble, trying to look anywhere but at his bony upraised ass. "What--" 

"I didn't want, umm," his voice catches on another of those vocalizations. Mating cry, you think stupidly. The idiot's calling out for his equally pan-damaged matesprit. "Ah. A brother didn't mean for you to see him all up like this." 

The end of the club is still shoved up his nook. You're pissed, but your body clenches in sympathy. Gamzee's a lot bigger than you--probably all around--but you can't imagine the blunt unyielding end of a club would be all that pleasant. You've had enough weird human dick up your nook to know how uncomfortable it can be, fucking anything but a proper gogdamn bulge.

Attempting to tear your gazebulbs away again, you cough. "Yeah, well, a ‘brother’ should stop shoving deadly fucking projectiles up his nook in his moirail's gogdamn respiteblock," you say. There isn't much heat behind it. Even you aren't enough of a dick to think he's actually enjoying himself. 

"Yeah," he says. His voice lowered to a creepy nightmare-fuel octave after his last molt, but even now, he sounds as vapid as ever. You guess that if heat made him start pulling trolls apart in a hormonal slaughterfrenzy, Tavros would have a lot fewer appendages by now. "Motherfuck, brother," he adds. 

"Yeah," you agree. This is shaping up to be one of the worst conversations in paradox space, but that can be safely fucking said for every conversation you have with Gamzee. He makes that pathetic fucking it'd-be-a-whine-if-it-wasn't-coming-from-a-giant-clown-thorax mating call again, and shakes his head as if even _he's_ got enough sense to be embarrassed over this. 

It's so pitiful and desperate that you find yourself kneeling by his giant naked frame. You just hope moirails are covered on the list of things highbloods won't disembowel instinctively during mating season. "Jegus, Gamzee," you mumble, putting a hand cautiously on his flushed shoulder. He feels warm, for him; a couple degrees warmer than lukewarm. He rumbles and leans into the contact. 

It's familiar, just like old times. Like any jam session, you try and convince yourself. Like any totally normal jam session in which he's got his bulge out and a weapon shoved up his nook.

"Why the fuck are you even here, you sopor-clogged bulgebiter?" you ask. "Isn't this sort of your fairyassed matesprit's job? Isn't this a regular fucking thing that you should maybe, I don't know, _plan your fucking vacations around_?"

Yelling at him is comforting; it’s at least familiar. You ignore how he smells when you pull him close to pap him properly. This close to his head, you can't see his nook, which you're counting as a win. 

"Well, it's like--" he rumbles again, and does something with his left hand and the club that makes you growl in annoyance, "sorry. It's all up and unpredictable like, you know, the miracle of seasons--"

"SEASONS ARE NOT UNPREDICTABLE, YOU INSUFFERABLE ASSCLOWN," you shout. What is with this guy, you ask yourself again, and what did you do to deserve this?

"Haha, yeah--I can see where maybe you're all up and getting your comprehension on, like knowing this here rainy-type season was all motherfucking on its way," he admits, laughing. It's more breathless than his usual honking, and you bare your teeth when you realize he's playing with his fucking club again. 

"CAN YOU NOT STUFF YOUR NOOK WHEN I'M GOGDAMN TALKING TO YOU?"

"Hahaha, well, it's all helping what with Tav not bein' here with his bitchtits thick--"

“FUCKING NO,” you interrupt. You will put up with some serious levels of shit, but listening to a treatise on the bulge of a stuttering fiduspawn devotee is where you will draw all the lines. _All of them_.

Gamzee laughs, again, but at least he doesn't _thrust_ anything. "So you don't want to hear about a brother--" 

"Don't fucking push it, Gamzee," you hiss, and he laughs again, rough and stupid and low. "I can't believe _both_ of you forgot about this shit. Are you seriously so busy spouting that verbal shitstorm that COULD NEVER FUCKING BE CALLED RAP that you forget to FILL A GOGDAMN BUCKET?" 

He looks beyond your shoulder like he's actually fucking considering it. You attempt, with some success, not to have an aneurysm. 

"Well, that motherfucker was up and saying something about maybe, it uh, being close to, um, that time of the sweep, you know?" Gamzee admits. If anything is more annoying than his thinkpanless way of speaking, it's him using Tavros's pathetic stutter. "But you know, sometimes you gotta get your jam on with your palebro, and I was all thinking that your miraculous transporter could all be taking me back to my most flushed brother. But electricity, you know man, how--"

"SHUT UP." 

It figures. It deeply fucking figures that, as usual, most of the blame can be placed on that nookstain, Past Karkat, and his brilliant fucking decisions in land ownership. Gamzee nearly flinches at your shouting, and you pap him absently. 

You can't believe you're in this situation, but now that you are… Well, there isn't much you can do to help it, is there? You just have to wait for the generator to kick back in, enough to power the transportalizer, and ship Gamzee off. Easy. 

His facepaint is cracking, smeared with sweat; and you can smell the fever on him. 

You have no clue how long the heat lasts. You’re not sure there’s any sense in asking Gamzee. He was too busy eating pie and falling off one-wheeled devices to pay attention to his schoolfeeds, and if he ever _did_ see one on highblood mating season he's sustained enough brain damage since then to forget about it. And if there’s a difference in how long it takes to weather through heat _without_ a matesprit--well, Gamzee would be more fucking lost than ever. The heat cycles don't start until a highblood reaches sexual maturity, after the first adult molt, and by the time Gamzee had finished his molt, Tavros had already decided to come back to life. 

You have no idea if jerking off helps at all. But from how desperately he's jacking that fucking club up his nook--

"Seriously," you start, wincing at the noise. "Can you take that--JEGUS FUCK NOT ON THE FLOOR." It's a little late for protesting at this point. Another ulcer _miraculously_ forms in your digestive sac. 

There is now a club on your floor, the end of it entirely coated in indigo slime. There is also a large puddle of indigo that you really doubt will ever wash out and now unless you replace the entire fucking floor you're going to be reminded of this hideous travesty every day for _the rest of your sad excuse of a life_. Quite possibly, you will also be forced to stab out your auricular sponge-clots because that liquid sound is burned in. With your fucking luck your death will be spent in an eternal dreambubble loop of Gamzee Makara splooshing genetic material on your floor.

What the fuck was past you thinking? 

Gamzee's claws are digging furrows in the floor. Think fast, current Karkat, you tell yourself. This is already exceptionally not good, you don't need your horny crazy moirail to fly _entirely_ off the fucking handle. 

"Okay," you say, "okay. Look, I want as close to ZERO details as possible when you answer but--fuck. When you've been like this before, how long does it, uh… last?" 

He rumbles again, almost a growl this time. It's hard to ignore the instinct to stick a sickle in his throat and run, but you haven't put up with eight-plus sweeps of Gamzee without learning how to suppress a few instincts. He spaces out for a while, and you try to space out as best as you're able. Now that the club is discarded, there's fuck all to distract you from his GIANT WRITHING MASS OF A BULGE.

"I guess I don't motherfucking know," he says, which you are thunderstruck by, what a gogdamn revelation. "Tav's always all up and there. Maybe, like, a motherfucking day?"

A day. Okay, yeah, you can do that. 

"But that's when I'm all with my most bitching of red brothers," he continues, "and he's all up in my--"

"WHAT PART OF ZERO DETAILS DO YOU NOT COMPREHEND?"

Shouting at least helps you pretend this is a normal fucking situation. Your moirail needs to be fucked. Okay. 

You take a few slow breaths, trying to calm yourself. Right now, you're just hoping--against all evidence--that the plot point of Pail or Die was just a Troll Hollywood construct. 

"Let me guess," you say, resigned to your fate of watching this travesty, "you need to pail, or you'll be shoving grubfucking blood-stained cudgels up your nook all fucking night." 

"Maybe worse than that, my motherfucking diamond brother," he says. He sounds a bit distracted, and you growl in warning when you see part of his bulge making friendly with the handle of one of your shittier sickles, and pet him absently when he whines.

This is fucking ridiculous, even for your miserable joke of a life. Dying from a lack of pailing was something you had left with Alternia and the drones. It would just figure you'd wind up with some biologically inept iceblood as a moirail. 

You're the only person who can bail him out. You're the lowblood sucker in the shitty quadrant-shifting cross-hemospectrum romcom. It's you. 

Sighing, you look over this miserable sack of bones you call a friend. "Let me guess, you can't just rub one out," you say. It's not a question. If highblood physiology is as shithive maggots as you’ve read it is, you're surprised Eridan didn't die sweeps back. Well. Die _again_ , anyway. 

"There's all kinds of miracles up in this most motherfucking miraculous planet," Gamzee offers. He looks like he fucking _believes_ that hoofbeastshit. Your throat feels tight. 

Maybe he’d be fine for a short while, you think. Watching his fucking bulge try to molest whatever’s within reach, you don’t know that your hive would survive it. You also don’t know if you want to leave him like this, even for minutes. You don’t know if you _could_.

"Jegus. Shut up," you say, voice rough with pity. He can believe that magical deathclowns will spirit down and save his ass all he likes. You know that, unless the power kicks back on, there's only one solution to this.

You take your shirt off in an aggressive, sharp motion; stripping like it was a personal challenge. Where Gamzee is tall and all bone, you're short and dense and maybe a little fucking heavy around the stomach but that's the fault of that stupid human fermented hopberry drink. It's not like Gamzee hasn't seen you naked before, but you still snarl at him, daring him to comment. 

It's nothing personal. This is how you always strip before pailing. 

Gamzee just looks confused. 

"Not that I'm not down with a brother getting his comfort on--"

" _Shut up_ ," you growl again. "This works, doesn't it?" you ask, looking away from Gamzee's still-lost face as you strip down. "You need to pail, and you need another troll to do it." You throw your pants off into a pile. "I don't see any other volunteers." 

Naked in front of him, you're not yet aroused in the least. It's one of the few times you can see the benefit in the creepy mammalian ability to be interested in pailing _every fucking member of their disgusting soft-skinned species_. While humans and trolls were apparently--much to your continuing horror--sexually compatible, your clearly superior biology only allowed for it if you had a human in one of the proper quadrants.

"Whoa," Gamzee says, helpfully. "A brother never got any flushed-type feelings from you." 

"THAT'S BECAUSE THERE AREN'T ANY, BULGEBRAINS!" 

Seething, you think it's as if Gamzee wants to make this even _more_ of an ordeal. At least--him being your moirail--getting your bulge out isn't entirely impossible; you just hope it doesn't induce any quadrant-shifting shenanigans. 

You, for one, are not prepared to trust anyone else to the duty of calming this juggalo’s ass.  
"Sorry. This is a one-time thing, all right?" you mumble, a little apologetic for getting so pissed when he's this miserable. 

Pressing up close beside him, you butt your head against his to clack horns in the manner of matesprits. You can feel his thorax vibrate with his deep growl of interest, and you try not to flinch when his large horns grind rough against yours. 

"Fucking moron," you say. It may be true, but he doesn't deserve to die for it. You scratch the useless nubs you call horns down on his again, and try not to shiver when he leans full up against you. 

He's _cold_. You knew he would be, but all the same, it's a little shocking to feel full on, skin to skin. His bulge twines against itself wetly, one of several fronds rubbing slick and cool against your thigh. 

It’s as if he can't ever stop butting horns, now that you've started. You try to ignore how he tends to twist his head sharply before catching himself, like he's trying to spar against a decent fucking rack. "Can't believe you'd all up and do this for me--" he starts, and you pap at his shoulder angrily to quiet him. 

"Of course I would, nookstink," you say. "You're pathetic." 

You've told him that countless times, over the sweeps. This time, however, he reacts; shuddering against you, growling something stupid about the heat of your skin. 

"This better fucking work," you mumble, mostly to yourself. His bulge is a writhing mess against your hip and thigh, that one frond twisting to prod against the still-narrow slit of your seedflap. You shiver involuntarily, the claws of your feet digging in to the carpet. 

So maybe you haven't taken many opportunities to pail with other trolls. Maybe you've been a little distracted by sloppy interspecies makeouts. So now you're realizing that--while it feels utterly foreign--there's also something fucking awesome and right about feeling a bulge slick and probing against your flap. You growl, suddenly very okay with this entire situation. Your own bulge begins to slowly emerge, wet and fever-hot against his. 

"Aw, motherfuck," he groans, looking down. You flush, watching him stare at the mutant red of your bulge sliding out, starting to twine through his dark highblood junk. That damn frond--one among many in his mass of a bulge, not that you’re ashamed of your perfectly respectable solitary tentacle--keeps stroking and teasing at the inside of your slit. You feel your nook starting to open, to get wet, but his bulge keeps curling and tensing strictly around your own. 

It's fucking incredible, even if he's doing his best to ruin it with the shit he's saying--that you're the most bitchtits fucking palebrother, that your bulge is the most fucking brilliant of little miracles, that he's so pale for you he could motherfucking kill you--and you reach a hand down unthinking between your bodies, pressing two fingers rough into his clenching nook. He jolts, claws scratching against you, and you smirk. 

You'd kind of forgotten this isn't a thing with non-caliginous troll relationships. And that then, it's usually somewhat less than pleasant. There's a reason you keep your claws blunted, you tell him, the humans aren't _entirely_ inept at pailing. Pressing up, you try hooking your fingers to find the swell of his erogenous internalized genetic fluid gland. The walls of his nook are wet and cold; his genetic material dripping cool down your arm. 

Unfamiliar as it may be, it's thrilling. You thrust your fingers deep, over and over, and you bare your fangs at him when his overgrown claws gouge at your flanks. The noises he’s making are deep and loud. They’re also utterly inhuman, and it makes your bloodpusher race. You probably would have been culled before you’d ever have a chance to fill a bucket on Alternia, but you can’t help thinking this is how sex should be. None of this interspecies makeout bullshit, just this: the proper prehensile mass of a bulge, the normal amount of secretions in a proper fucking color. 

You bite his shoulders hard, letting your teeth rip at his tough skin and grunting when he just shudders with pleasure. Your bulge feels heavy, fully emerged and thrusting instinctively through the writhing tentacles of his. Pulse pounding in your throat, the amount of lust you're experiencing for this is overwhelming. 

Maybe he's an idiot, maybe his body is about as attractive as a skeleton in fucking clown makeup. But shit if it isn't enough to make your nook soaked just to _not hold back_. 

He's stronger than you, you're fully fucking aware. But even when his fangs are ripping at your shoulder, even when his claws have raked red lines down your flanks--he's still so pathetic and sweetly passive. That mating call he was making earlier has devolved into a constant desperate moan, and he's frozen on his knees in front of you. His muscles are tensed as your hand jerks up in his nook, and after every time he bites you, his tongue rasps over the marks. 

He's affectionate enough that you understand why he never got around to figuring out his black quadrant, gentle enough that you're starting to get nauseated. Finally, he licks you once more, and--fed up--you wedge the blunt tips of your horns under his throat and shove. 

He falls back with another whine, far easier than he should have, and his thighs splay around you. You draw your hand back, fighting against his bulge's grip, and crouch back on your haunches. Now that your right hand is fucking gloved with his genetic material, you may as well _actually_ stare at the heavy mass of his bulge and the open slickness of his nook, as opposed to being fucking assaulted with the sight while studiously trying to ignore it. His skin is dark with arousal, and he's breathing so hard the shallow slits of his vestigial gills flare. Your hands itch to touch them--they're so foreign, alien as a human navel--but he's staring back, and you begrudgingly hold still to let him. 

For all of a few seconds, he takes you in. It's exactly long enough for you to consider flipping your shit entirely off the griddle. "This is an exclusive fucking deal, so take a picture," you growl. You might look impressive next to a human, but right now you just feel short and dull-fanged and nub-horned. 

"Serious bro? I'll all be needing to get--"

"It's an expression, chutemunch." 

"Aww, but I thought it was all the most bitchtits idea," he says. He rumbles, half-laughing, and reaching out he takes your bulge in one massive hand. It coils tight around his fingers, writhing wild against his palm. His cool rough skin, the size of his hands--you can't help thinking about how different it is from letting your bulge twine in a human's grip. 

"--guess it's all motherfucking true, what they say, huh bro?" he's asking, and laughing again. You don't really care to admit that you'd been spacing out, so you keep your mouth shut and watch as his palm is stained red. It's not as if _he'd_ notice you were distracted. 

Squeezing at you rhythmically, he laughs again, low and honking and fucking annoying; but not fucking annoying enough to make your bulge any less interested. Against your own better judgement, you ask what he's laughing about. 

"Oh, you all lost track of time, thinking of the bitchin' miracle of us, huh brother?" he asks. You'd flip your shit so hard it'd stick to the fucking ceiling, except he's rocking his thumb firmly against the base of your bulge, right where it emerges from your seedflap, right where you fucking _love_ it. "I was just all up and saying that, like, it's all motherfucking right, what they say about the size of your horns." 

And okay, you compile a list in your head of people who would give a single gogdamn fuck--or even a tenth of a fuck--if you just shoved him out the respiteblock fenestration to die from a broken skull or exposure or fucking troll heat. Even though it's only two people long, your fucking name is still on the list. You have never had any fucking complaints, you inform him at maximum volume, and if he wants to get pailed he can shut his frond-wilting windhole. 

He keeps laughing, even as you pull at him roughly to get him back on his knees, even as you decapatchalogue a bucket between his legs to preserve whatever is left of your carpet. You try to ignore him, your blunted claws digging at his back as your bulge slides over his ass. The genetic material between his thighs is cold enough to make you wince when your frond slides through, but the way he arches his back and fucking displays for you--you groan and pull at his hips, wanting nothing more than to sink yourself in. 

Already, you can hear the metallic clatter of his bulge dripping into the bucket, and the sound makes you grind up against him, desperate. You let your bulge glide back and forth a few times, running a sloppy line between wastechute and the cool edge of his seedflap, Every time it twists over his nook, he whines and thrusts back a little more; trying to lure you inside, mindless with the need to be pailed.

The tip of your bulge dips in shallowly a few times. You're mostly doing it to brace yourself for what is essentially going to be WILLINGLY IMMERSING YOUR BULGE IN ICE, but the noises he makes and the way he writhes... They’re all so fucking pitiful. You shoosh him, stroking up his flanks and sides, fingering the pulsating lines of his gills. 

Gog. Even when you're about to shove your bulge in him, you're so fucking pale for this asshole.

When you do thrust in, it's in that instinctive twisting _rush_ , a single surge of your bulge burrowing deep. Gamzee claws at the floor and yells--an angry, pained sort of noise--and you stop groaning and freeze. 

"Ohmothergrubfuck," you breathe. "Shit. Fuck." You are the asshole. It's you. Gamzee is panting, but is otherwise very, very still. 

You're still half-draped on his back because you have a very strict No Sudden Movements Policy around all of the fucking psychopaths on this planet. You can feel your heart racing, feel the slow beat of his against your stomach. "Jegus. I should--"

"Naw, brother," he says. His voice is hoarse, and you nuzzle his back and pap him, because fuck you need to fix this. "It's just all a surprise, like when you up and touch a pie after it's all been getting its bake on." 

"That's not a surprise, that's basic fucking common sense," you say. Even as cold as he is, you're sweating; aching to pull out or move or fucking _something_. You'd never considered this would be an issue before--how much warmer can you really fucking be, lowbloods are all within fucking degrees of each other--and now that it _is_ you're stuck waiting for chucklefronds to get his act together. "Look, I don't want to give you third-degree nookburn. Or second-degree. Fuck. I think ZERO degrees of nookburn is the only acceptable level, so I'm just gonna pull--"

"Motherfuck, don't," he interrupts again, reaching back to steady you with one slimy paw. You make a face--he could have at least used the hand you hadn't jizzed on. "I just need to get all up and used to it all," he says, "got no issue with the sick fires you're all unleashing."

You ask him if this is an elaborate fucking experiment in discovering all the ways to wilt Karkat Vantas's frond, and keep where you are, hands loose on his sides. If he wants to talk about miracles, this is a fucking miracle, that your bulge hasn't retracted in horror. 

Under your hands, you can feel his body easing up. His nook clenches around you, and this time he growls like he's enjoying it. 

"Fuck." You'd ask him if he's sure it's okay--gog knows if your freak genetic material isn't just going to burn a hole in in his nook--but your bulge is already twisting instinctively in him again. He tightens around you, and you groan, a red trail starting to run down the inside of your thigh. 

At first, you thrust awkwardly against him. You can't seem to find a decent rhythm though, your bulge sliding wet in and out of his hole. He's enjoying it well enough, if the noises he makes are anything to go by. But he’s kneeling there, completely immobile while you thrust and try to figure out why he’s utterly motionless, and it takes you a few moments of looking like a complete idiot before you remember--

You've been pailing humans for far too long. 

Shit. It's embarrassing as fuck. You blush, and start trying to screw like a damn troll for once. Sinking your teeth in his back, you freeze everything, save for your bulge and hands; your bulge twisting and pushing against the insides of his nook, your hands milking the long tendrils of his dripping bulge. He's just as responsive--maybe, you think belatedly, he didn't even _notice_ you were using your hips like some evolutionary joke--and this way, you can concentrate on working his bulge. 

His internalized genetic material gland feels swollen against the tip of your frond. Mindless, you let it keep pulsing and sliding over the hard little swell, even though it just makes your thighs even more stained with his frigid nookjuice. 

The noises he makes are low and fuck if vibration isn't the best feature; you gnaw at him happily, for once hoping he _never shuts up_. 

There are points where you think you're tipping a little blackrom in your enthusiasm--raking a horn hard against the side of a gill you can reach, scratching his legs with the longer claws of your feet--but this is already a giant quadrant-shifting pile of hoofbeastshit. Gamzee, big fucking surprise considering all he's ever cared about is sopor and nightmareclowns, doesn't seem to mind the rough treatment either, so you just go with it. You have to keep your claws to yourself, even around your so-called kismesis--not that you're particularly violent, as trolls go--so it's thrilling to let it out now. You may as well, if you’re going to be stuck pailing someone with whom you're supposed to have STRICTLY PLATONIC RELATIONS anyway. 

The bucket is gradually filling beneath you, Gamzee's bulge contracting and relaxing around your hands. There's no one thing that finally sets him off--more of a gradual build that takes longer than you'd expect, for a troll so desperate he'd shove a truncheon up himself--but suddenly he's there, bulge painfully tight around your fingers and a gush of fluid running from his nook. The vibration from the sounds he's making are nearly enough to make you come, too, and you're growling and shoving into him, letting his bulge strangle your hands. 

It seems like ages before he slumps beneath you, before the fronds of his bulge start to loosen up. He's barely keeping himself from falling on the bucket, leaning heavily on his arms, still panting. You keep fucking him, gripping at his sharp hipbones once his bulge starts retracting, but--

You hiss, annoyed. Your bulge keeps working in him, but now it's just gogdamn awkward. He's so boneless and still, and you just want to pap him and make sure he's alive and okay--or as close to okay as he gets--and you feel so pale it's agonizing. It's sort of difficult to reconcile pale with pailing, and now that he's just sort of lying there with his bulge halfway back in, you're not quite so aroused. 

Fuck it, you think. Or the exact reverse of fucking it, if “it” is referring to Gamzee. You pull back, wincing a little at the noise of _more genetic material_ splashing in the bucket. The bucket is mostly full of his indigo come, the thinest trace of red tinging the material from his nook. Just as well. You weren't planning on filling a bucket with anyone today--or _ever_ , as far as actual troll reproduction goes. Even with the new mother grub and the lack of a culling threat, you figure your asshole of an ancestor is spreading the freak genetics well enough without your help. 

Sitting back on your heels again, you shakily decapatchalogue a towel and wipe off your hands. "Jegus fuck," you mutter to yourself. 

It's feeling too quiet in the respiteblock again, and you’re attempting to ignore your bulge's continued attempt to find something to twine around. As if you've ever been able to get off on bulge stimulation alone. Fuck. 

You wipe at your thighs and stomach, and you're about to start on your moirail when he decides to start moving again.

"Whoa," he says, turning. There are possibly six Os and ten As in that word, and you grit your teeth somewhere after the W. 

"Hey, best friend," he keeps saying. "I don't want to leave you all out and hanging, that would be the least bitchtits." 

"That makes no fucking--" you begin, only trail off into a string of cursing as he just sort of reaches over and grabs you. There's no real violence behind it, and though you're irritated he seems fairly well-meaning, in a Gamzee sort of way. You can yell at him all you like, he's just going to continue being as fucking weirdly and vapidly persistent as ever. Soon enough you're kneeling over the bucket yourself, and Gamzee's got you turned around and you are trying very hard not to be nervous about the fact that Gamzee's knife-sharp snaggleteeth are unsupervised behind you. 

But his huge hands just smooth over your back, and he tells you to relax, brother. Before you can remind him how completely shithive you'd have to be to relax with his fangs this close to your bulge, he's curved a hand over to cup your junk and his tongue is rough against your nook.

"Oh," you say, stupidly. 

It isn't nearly enough to describe this. After being with humans for so long, you're wary of trying to fuck the mass of tentacles Gamzee is pawning off as a reproductive organ, but his tongue? Nearly as long as your bulge and just as mobile, you start growling out thoughtless curses, arching your hips and leaning full on your forearms in full fucking pailing display. 

"Shit, Gamzee--" you trail off, hissing as he presses his face in tighter, his tongue in deep enough to just reach the edge of your internalized genetic gland. His palm grinds steadily against the base of your bulge and the edge of your seedflap. 

The first wet noises of you leaking into the bucket are almost inaudible under the harsh panting of your breath and the low pleased hum Gamzee keeps making. 

Vibration, you think deliriously. No way he's got enough brain between his sponge clots to do that purposefully, but again it is _the best feature_ , you'd like to see the humans even fucking try. Well, try without their various--and somewhat ingenious, even _you’ll_ admit--human pailing devices, anyway.

Closing your eyes and rocking back--cautiously, snarling every time you feel his teeth pressed against you--you give in. This situation is absurd. It's never going to happen again. It's embarrassing and maybe you're feeling like you're taking advantage of this situation--he's the one who needed to pail, not you--and maybe you're going to have to run an icestabbing device through your frontal panlobe tomorrow evening to erase this from your memory. 

But right now, you've got the rasp of troll tongue all over the slick walls of your nook, dragging nice and firm over your gland, and it doesn't take you long at all to start whining low and pathetic, to feel the hot gush of fluid splashing down from your body. 

You've gone so long hiding your freak blood that you're instinctively nervous filling a bucket like this, but Gamzee's massive paws are essentially holding you hostage, much as your instincts would have you running. He's not letting up with his mouth, either, so even though you're reluctantly forced to go limp and try to ignore the sound of your genetic material mingling with his--well, at least it's vaguely enjoyable. He keeps making this unusual sound deep in his throat, and it takes you a minute before you realize oh Jegus fuck.

"ARE YOU SWALLOWING, WHAT THE EVERPAILING FUCK YOU NOOKSTAIN." 

He pulls back, laughing. You kick at him. Maybe humans can get away with that shit, but it's basic fucking logic to NOT do that as a troll. He never fails to surprise you with how terrible he is at living, with the sheer lack of sense with which he's somehow survived this many sweeps. 

"Yeah, motherfucker," he says. You make the mistake of turning, and have to look quickly away, trying to focus on anything but Gamzee wiping bright red from his face. "Guess that's what you can all up and call me, huh?" 

"Shut up," you hiss, standing. You capatchalogue the bucket before he can get any ideas about the miracles of palebro grubs, and start absconding to the ablution trap. "And if I get a nook infection from your shitty clown makeup, I'll make sure your death is just enough to fucking stick." 

 

Though he'd seemed vapidly calm enough when you'd left, you hurry the fuck through the motions of cleaning off and disposing of the evidence in the load gaper. When you return, he seems settled--for Gamzee, that is--and he's even made a halfhearted attempt at toweling off your genetic material. His bare face is still--for all the times you’ve seen it--stunning and oddly vulnerable, his scars all the more stark. 

Though you're still naked, you tug him out to the pile, curling yourself in his lap. 

"You're a grubfucking mess," you say, quietly. He's still not over his heat, you can tell--he still smells of the heavy aroma of highblood pheromones, and though his bulge has retracted, his seedflap is still gaping obscenely--but it seems you've bought him some time. 

He pets you, lazy and slow. "Pale for you," he rumbles. 

"Yeah, yeah."

Pressed up against him, you listen to the slow beat of his bloodpusher, and think endlessly about time--how much of it he's got. How little he'll have with you. 

 

You wake discombobulated by daylight, confused about both where you are--naked on your moirail's lap--and about whatever the fuck woke you at this hour. 

The rain's let up, but the drowsy rhythm of his heart should keep you sedated enough, and the generator's constant rattling whirr--fuck those musclebeast-fondling nub biters--is as familiar as your own breath. Because you are an idiot, it takes all of a minute for you to sit up, shake Gamzee until he starts blearily whining platitudes about the miracles of sleep, and start dialing the coordinates for Tavros's hive. 

Gamzee is not exactly awake when you shove him on the platform. 

He is not exactly dressed, either, but fuck if you care. With your luck, the generator wouldn’t stay on long enough to argue him back into his hideous pants, and you trust Tavros won't get all murderous about the state of his matesprit. Tavros wouldn’t get murderous about the state of anything. 

Maybe you'd be concerned about some decent fucking persons's gazebulbs getting seared out at the sight of Gamzee, but you can count the people who would actually be visiting fucking Nitram on one hand. 

And half of them are douchebags. 

\---

\--adiosToreador [AT] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]\--

AT: sO HOPEFULLY, tHIS TIME ISN'T ONE IN WHICH YOU JUST, yOU KNOW, bLOCK ME OUTRIGHT,,,,  
CG: OH MY NOOKCHAFING FUCK  
AT: bECAUSE IT'S JUST THAT, i WOULD LIKE TO BE PUTTING ON THE RECORD, aND POSSIBLY HAVING NOTARIZED, tHAT I WOULD LIKE TO THANK YOU,

Oh jegus. You only execute a single facepalm, because your other hand is too fucking busy hovering over the block button. Tavros is so ingratiatingly sincere, it makes you want to rip your intestines out though your seedflap. Adding insult to grubshitting injury, like everyone else he'd grown to be a head taller than you even _without_ the horns, and generally more formidable in every way, including the one in which he now has giant wings and should probably be swooping in right now to kill the shitty excuse for a moirail who pailed his matesprit. 

Just this once, you're going to try and talk some basic fucking sense into him. Why can no one else--not even other trolls--understand a goddamn thing about romance?

CG: ALRIGHT LISTEN UP BECAUSE I AM ONLY GOING TO SAY THIS ONCE SO YOUR SPONGECLOTS BETTER BE SCRAPED THE FUCK OUT.  
AT: uH, oKAY, cONSIDER THEM IN THAT STATE, bASICALLY,  
CG: AND I WOULDN'T NEED TO BE WASTING MY FUCKING ENERGY  
CG: WEARING MY FINGERS DOWN TO NOTHING  
CG: IF YOU DIDN'T HAVE SUCH A SHITTY JOKE AS A MOIRAIL. BECAUSE HOW THE FUCK IS THAT EVEN A THING?  
AT: wELL i GUESS IT ISN'T REALLY,  
AT: a THING AT ALL, jUST LIKE YOU SAY,,,  
AT: bECAUSE, uM, i KNOW IT'S FAKE, aND NOT REALLY MOIRALLEGIENCE, oN ACCOUNT OF THE FACT THAT HE ISN'T HOMICIDAL ABOUT MUCH OF ANYTHING,  
AT: eXCEPT MAYBE BEATS THAT ARE NOT SO ILL, oR, uH, wORMS MAYBE,  
AT: aND MORE THE RELATIONSHIP IS ABOUT SETTING DOWN SOME STERN RAPS, aND ALSO FLYING AROUND MOSTLY, i GUESS,,,  
CG: OKAY GOG I DON'T NEED TO HEAR YOU FAP PALE ALL OVER THIS PESTERLOG, PARTICULARLY WHEN IT ISN'T EVEN BIO FUCKING LOGICALLY POSSIBLE.  
CG: SO HERE IT GOES BECAUSE YOU APPARENTLY WERE BOINKING HOSTPLUSH INSTEAD OF GETTING SCHOOLFED.  
CG: YOU WANT A STRICT GOGDAMN RULE, HERE IS THE STRICTEST:  
CG: YOU DO NOT PAIL YOUR PALE BROTHER.  
CG: STOP THE AUTOMATED MOVABLE TYPE DEVICES. END THE MEMO. BLOCK ALL THE NOOKSNIFFERS LOGGED IN TO THAT BITCH AND SIGN AND FUCKING NOTARIZE.

Your hands clench over the keys. Maybe you didn't have a lot of choice, but since that day… If you thought you'd hated past you before, well.

AT: i DO KNOW THAT, uM, i DON'T REALLY KNOW WHAT BOINKING IS, bUT IT WASN'T A THING I WAS DOING, aT LEAST DURING THAT LECTURE,,,  
AT: bUT ANYWAY, wHAT IS MORE IMPORTANT IS THAT YOU KNOW IT, bETTER THAN ANYONE, mAYBE,  
AT: bUT MAYBE YOU KNOW IT A LITTLE TOO MUCH, wHICH IS A BAD WAY OF SAYING THAT,  
AT: i THINK MAYBE QUADRANTS ARE A LOT MORE COMPLICATED THAN YOU THINK, aND MAYBE SOMETIMES THE LINES AREN'T TOO, uH, sTRICT,  
AT: aND THAT BASICALLY, eVEN IF THEY WERE, sTRICT THAT IS,  
AT: yOU WERE HELPING GAMZEE,  
AT: aND IT WAS PROBABLY KIND OF A, uH, hASSLE, mAYBE, bUT I GUESS YOU KNOW THAT, bECAUSE YOU REALLY HELP HIM MORE THAN, wELL, aNYBODY,,,  
AT: aND THIS PROBABLY IS ALL, uH, jUST MAKING YOU GET READY TO HIT BAN,  
AT: sO MAYBE I'LL JUST SAY AGAIN,  
AT: tHANK YOU, aND FROM GAMZEE, tOO,,,

\--adiosToreador [AT] stopped trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]\--

CG: OKAY. YOU'RE WELCOME, I GUESS.

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] stopped trolling adiosToreador [AT]\--

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling adiosToreador [AT]\--

CG: AND THANKS.

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] stopped trolling adiosToreador [AT]\--

**Author's Note:**

> Done for my pal, [youdidnotseeme](http://youdidnotseeme.tumblr.com/) as a thanks for all the arts. Thanks to her and [metron](http://metron-ariston.livejournal.com/) for going over this for me!


End file.
